


Caught in the Storm

by FanfictionForCookies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Doctor John Watson, Drug Use, Gen, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Feels, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Holmes is a Bit Not Good, Torture, Trauma, Triggers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 11:20:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18222458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanfictionForCookies/pseuds/FanfictionForCookies
Summary: When Sherlock shows up at Mycroft's flat one night and viciously attacks him, it becomes a race to find out why it happened and who's behind it (if anyone), before it happens again.





	Caught in the Storm

It was too late for Mycroft to be awake. He sighed heavily as he lifted himself from his couch and grabbed the now-empty brandy glass from the table in front of him. He had work early in the morning, dealing with the Prime Minister in relation to a new bill coming into the office. As important that may be, however, he was more concerned with the latest troubling developments with his younger brother. The agents he had posted to watch the emotional man had lost track of him shortly after what they assumed was a meeting with a drug-dealer and he was now nowhere to be found. He didn't want to receive news in the morning that Sherlock had been found half-conscience in a dirty alley, his head still spinning from whatever he had overdosed on this time.

Putting the glass in the sink, Mycroft turned to shut the lights off when he heard a sharp knock at the door. Already deducing who it must be, the older gentleman paced to the door and opened it to reveal a twitchy Sherlock. His hair was dirty as was his clothes and skin, his eyes were red and darted about while occasionally refocusing on his older brother's face.

"Ah, back on the sauce, brother dear?" Mycroft shot off, gaining a piercing glare and bared teeth from the too-high man. This wasn't right. Sherlock could be more easily irritated during his recreational expeditions but nothing in the past had made him look this feral. No, no this wasn't right. He should close the door and lock it before Sherlock could come in. And call John for good measure. That man had a very respectable way of getting Sherlock to listen in a way Mycroft never could.

"Well, I'm off to bed. So, we'll have to catch up in the morning, brother. Goodnight." Mycroft shifted to close the door and as soon as the wooden barrier moved, Sherlock stuck his foot out to stop it.

"No." Sherlock's lips barely stopped bearing his teeth for him to hiss out the single-syllable word. Moving more fluidly that Mycroft would have thought possible given his state of mind, Sherlock stepped into the house.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft cut his sentence short as the younger brother stepped threateningly towards him. Mycroft automatically took an equal step back and raised his hands to show that he wasn't holding anything. Sherlock shut the door, turning momentarily to lock it before facing him again.

"I need money." Sherlock took another step forward. Mycroft took yet another step back, memories of what happened the last time he got on Sherlock's bad side during a session all too fresh in his mind.

"For what, Sherlock? More drugs?" Mycroft stopped walking backwards and allowed his brother to step toe-to-toe with him.

"That's none of your business." Sherlock snapped, eyes holding dangerous threats against the man in front of him.

"It becomes my business when you want to use my money, brother dearest." Mycroft's face held the expression of a stone, watching his brother to see what his comment would do.

"Just give it to me." Sherlock growled deeply, his voice ratting in his throat.

"And what would John think, Sherlock? Do you think John approves of what you're doing right now?" Mycroft took a careful step back, knowing that the tension would break soon and that it would likely not break in his favor. He needed to get his phone. He needed to call John. He discreetly patted his pocket where his phone always was but didn't feel it.

"Looking for this?" Sherlock held the phone in question up for him to see. How did he get that? Mycroft lifted his chin higher in defiance of the dread creeping into his chest. "Promise to leave John out of this and you'll get it back." He wiggled the phone tauntingly, watching his brother's face for any signs of his answer.

"Sherlock, John may be able to help with this particular situation. Maybe we can come to an understanding with him here." Mycroft didn't move to grab the phone but watched it carefully as it stopped moving in Sherlock's hand.

Smash! The phone crashed into the wall of the wide room not far from the door, clattering on the carpet miraculously intact but clearly battered.

"No! Listen to me! Leave John out of this!" Sherlock took quick steps toward his older brother, his hands balling into fists.

"Sherlock, listen to me, you're not yourself right now. You need to calm down and we can sort this out like civil adults." Mycroft backed up just as quickly as Sherlock came towards him, hands still openly raised in front of his body in passiveness and defense.

"Stop telling me what to do!" Mycroft avoided the first fist that flew towards him but saw the second one too late, grunting as his brother's left-hand knuckles smashed against his cheekbone, stars floating in front of the older Holmes' eyes from the force.

"You always tell me what to do!" Still recovering from the first blow, Mycroft had no time to prepare for the next one, barely bringing his head up before it was flung to the other side by a sharp punch to the jaw with Sherlock's right fist. Mycroft threw his hands higher up, open hands trying to protect his face and he blindly stumbled backwards to escape his brother's drug-induced rage.

"You think you can control me, Mycroft?" An unyielding pressure behind his knees registered too late and he fell backwards onto his dark-wooded coffee table next to his couch with a cry, arms still trying to protect him from Sherlock.

"Stop it!" Sherlock batted his brother's hands away and took the opening to backhand him before Mycroft's hands were back in defense mode.

"Stop it!" Sherlock repeated, one hand grabbing Mycroft's wrists and pinning them down on his chest. The next blow was unexpected, Sherlock punching Mycroft's nose hard enough to cause his head to rebound when it hit the table, blood quickly pouring from his bruising nose.

Mycroft's startled and pained cry did nothing but provoke Sherlock further.

"You think you're so great?" Sherlock seethed, standing up and walking around the stunned government employee who was holding his nose and trying to staunch the bleeding before grabbing Mycroft's wispy hair and ripping him from the table. Mycroft's hands shot up to fight against him, blood-slicked hands pushing against his wrists and tugging at his fingers in vein as his right eye began swelling shut from the first blow he'd received and the blood gushing from his nose made breathing difficult. Sherlock dropped his fist-full of hair and sent a harsh kick into Mycroft's side. Mycroft's agonized cry and dazed attempt to curl in on himself fueled Sherlock's rage, enticing him to throw another heavy kick into the other man's stomach, hitting his mark by slipping past his brother's arms and knees.

"You think you're so great? Brother, dear?" Sherlock spit the affectionate term out at the curled form, taking a moment to seethe at the fact that Mycroft wasn't answering him before raining a mix of blows on him.

All Mycroft could do was wait and hope that Sherlock's rage would come to an end soon, blood-curdling blows hit him from all sides; ribs stomped on, back kicked mercilessly, fists smashing onto his head and chest where they could. He could hear Sherlock grunting from the effort and tried to stay as tightly balled as he could, cries and grunts and gasps escaping him involuntarily.

"All you do is invade my privacy and bug my flat and try to control everyone around you." Sherlock brought his foot down on the side of his brother's head, making the curled form relax and cease its noise.

"And you can't even stay around long enough to listen to me. Pathetic." Sherlock spit, saliva landing partially on Mycroft's still right shoulder and partially on his bruised and bloody face.

"No wonder mother and father consider you a disgrace." Sherlock turned away and began looking through Mycroft's belongings, hoping to find any stashed-away cash he could. The sound of quick footsteps and clattering furniture took him a moment to register and by the time he'd turned around, Mycroft was almost at the door.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock picked up the first thing he could find, a heavy book, and threw it as hard as he could at the stumbling figure, leaping over displaced furniture to try to beat the man to the door.

The book hit Mycroft in the center of his upper back, causing him to falter just enough for Sherlock to have time to leap forward and tackle his brother by his legs, causing both of them to crash to the carpet.

"No! No, Sherlock! Let go of me. Let go!" Mycroft kicked out, catching Sherlock's shoulder just enough to knock the younger man off. He lifted his upper body from the ground and half-bear-crawled-half-ran the rest of the distance to the door. He threw his arm up and blinked away the tears in his eyes enough so that he could unlatched the lock, dropping his hand down to open the door in one swift motion.

"No!" Sherlock lunged forward and slammed the door shut just as Mycroft was regaining his balance on the door frame, smashing his fingers in the process. The scream that tore from the older brother's throat surprised both of them but was cut short by a backhanded fist across the first blow he'd received.

"No! No! No!" Sherlock punctuated each shout by reopening and slamming the door, hitting a different part of Mycroft's fingers each time as his hand slipped out of the doorframe. The stars in Mycroft's eyes had returned, increasing with each bash of the door and articulated with a mixture of Sherlock's shouting and his own agonized yelps.

"Stop it, Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped, slapping his brother sharply across his cheek before cradling his swelling hand, pain-filled tears dripping down his face and splashing onto the already-discolored hand. Would he ever be able to play piano again?

"You!" Sherlock looked around for something he could use to better get his point of utter hatred across, eyes settling on his brother's cherished umbrella in a specialty made stand next to the door. "You don't get to tell me what to do!" He ripped it from it's stand and clamored to his feet to loom over Mycroft, holding the expensive gift like a bat.

"Sherlock, whatever you're thinking of doing, stop it right now." Mycroft's eyes widened in alarm at the sight of his umbrella in the hands of his drug-addled sibling, uninjured hand reaching as high up towards his brother as he could in a silent plea for mercy as his legs instinctively began curling towards his stomach.

"You don't get to tell me what to do!" Sherlock repeated loudly, the umbrella whistling through the air as it came down and struck it's owner's hip. A cry was ripped from the battered man's throat.

"You are pathetic!" The umbrella swung down again and struck Mycroft's exposed shoulder, causing his defensive hand to drop and return to cradling his now blue and purple left hand.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft whimpered against the physical and emotional abuse, trying to think of someway to calm his brother down. The pain was too overwhelming though.

"You are weak!" Mycroft hunched his shoulders against the abuse and kicked his feet out to propel himself backwards, gasping in pain as a blow hit his knee.

"Nobody loves you." Sherlock berated, walking after him as he inched away feebly, leaning into the wall for protection as he worked his way into the corner.

"Nobody cares about you." The umbrella cracked as it hit the older sibling across the top of his head, causing him to collapse into his back in a daze.

"You're nothing, Mycroft." The man attempted to continue pushing himself back, stopping once he felt his back hit the corner and curling against the blinding pain of his cherished object. "And you will always be nothing."

Mycroft looked around through the blows and his tears and spotted his cellphone just a few feet away.

"Sherlock, you don't understand what you're doing. You have to stop. Now." Mycroft fell to the side and grabbed the umbrella as it came at him again, halting Sherlock's movements. "You need to take a deep breath and try to gather your thoughts." Mycroft kept his one good eye locked with Sherlock's, left hand working shakily against the swelling to press the speed-dial for John's number.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft with hazy confusion, the words seemingly sinking in as his grip on the umbrella grew lax.

"Yes, Mycroft, what do you want?" John's voice broke Sherlock's thoughts and he stared at the phone with shock before the rage filtered back into his eyes and he ripped the umbrella back from his brother's grip.

"I told you not to involve him!" Sherlock lifted the umbrella high over his head and smashed it down as hard as he could on Mycroft's extended hand, the already damaged object snapping and splintering from the force.

Mycroft could feel pressure in his chest as he screamed but he was unable to hear it, his vision blacking out as the pain in his hand consumed his whole body.

"Shut up!" Sherlock discarded the umbrella and kicked his stomach, stomping on his brother's knees and thighs as the screaming and gasping only grew louder in his ears.

"Shut up!" A hate-fueled blow struck between Mycroft's legs and promptly caused him to throw up, vomit landing on the carpet, down his shirt, and on the hem of Sherlock's pants, before he drew in a shaky breath and tried to focus on Sherlock through the black haze that had slowly started to encroach on his vision.

"Sherlock, please, stop." Mycroft couldn't find the ability to move anymore beyond weakly condensing to make himself look smaller, pain enveloping his body.

"Stop talking!" Sherlock raised his foot high in the air and stomped with all of his strength onto his brother's chest.

"Oh, God, Sherlock." Mycroft wheezed, body jerking in a vein attempt to curl up. "Stop. Stop, please. Sherlock."

"Stop it!" The younger Holmes raised his foot and repeated the motion, feeling something crack under his shoe.

"Sherlock, you're going to kill me! Stop-" Mycroft's pleas were cut short by a third blow to his chest, his lungs unable to draw in air, his heart feeling as if it were about to explode.

"No!" Sherlock dropped to his knees and straddled his brother, wrapping his hands around his sibling's throat.

"Sher-" Mycroft felt his brother's bony hands tighten around his neck. "Pl- Sh- I-" His vague attempt at words were ignored as Sherlock tightened his grip and shook Mycroft's head violently.

"You insolent, manipulative, deceitful, fat disgrace of a human being! I've thought of doing this so many times." He shook Mycroft until the end of his sentence before slamming his brother's head against the floor and tightening his grip on his neck as much as he could. He could feel Mycroft's body twitching and jerking under him, eyes staring at him with hazy horror and mouth open wide in a vain attempt to draw oxygen into his body as his face turned purple until his body stilled and the once-expressive eyes rolled back, mouth agape as blood continued to flow from his nose.

"Sherlock!" The younger Holmes was ripped from his position and thrown clear of the body. He moved to attack his offender but stopped instantly when he saw that it was John.

"Oh my god, what have you done?" John knelt next to Mycroft and gently touched his wrist in an attempt to check his pulse. "Sherlock, go sit on the couch."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted with a sharp, "Now!" And so went the sofa and pouted while listening to his friend in the background.

"Mycroft? Mycroft can you hear me?" There was a pause. "Yes, hello? I need an ambulance to..." Sherlock rolled his eyes and tuned out. John was overreacting. Like always. He glanced over to say so but stopped when he observed Mycroft's too still form.

"Sherlock you're going to kill me! Stop!" The despite and agonized pleas of his brother sank in slowly and he found himself shuffling off the couch and toward the two figures as if in a dream.

"Mycroft! Hold on." John shook the man's shoulders but stopped when his noticed blood seeping through the white button up on the front of his right shoulder. "Oh, God. Please hang on, Mycroft. Help is coming. You're going to be alright."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock piped in behind John, causing the doctor to spin around and stand to his full height, arms spread out slightly in an attempt to deter Sherlock from getting any closer to his brother.

Sherlock ignored the action and stayed in the same place, leaning over to see around John. "Mycroft, come now. Stop it."

"Sherlock, you need to go sit down now." John's voice was low with warning, eyes speaking volumes about his anger towards his friend.

"No, John, he needs to stop being so over-dramatic and get up so we can talk." Sherlock pointed to the body still lying on the floor how he left it.

"Sherlock, we'll discuss this later. You need to go sit. Now." John pointed at the couch and scowled.

Once the younger Holmes had retreated back to the sofa, John returned his attention to the man lying on the floor. As gently as he could, John moved him into recovery position, wanting to be sure that any more vomit or blood the man coughed up wouldn't make it's way to his lungs easily.

The sirens outside the open door caught the attention of both men and soon after, paramedics rushed into the house, stretcher and neck brace already at hand with the knowledge that they would need it, based on what the doctor said to the emergency services.

With a nod to the doctor and not so much as a glance to acknowledge Sherlock's existence, the paramedics applied the neck brace and loaded Mycroft onto the stretcher as carefully as possible, carting him off to the sound of retreating sirens and honking.

"He's just being over-dramatic." Sherlock huffed, the drugs still running rampant in his system.

"Sherlock, when I picked up the phone, I thought Mycroft was being murdered. I never thought I'd be right." John glared down at the filthy man pouting beneath him.

"I didn't murder him. He's still alive." The Holmes rolled his eyes and sprawled more comfortably on the couch.

"Sherlock, I heard him begging for you to stop. Do you even comprehend how much fear and pain he must have been in to beg?" John's temper flared and he cuffed his friend across the top of his head.

"Hey!" Sherlock snapped, scowling at the doctor. "He's still alive."

John shook his head and scoffed in disbelief before storming towards the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To the hospital." John snapped back. "To make sure Mycroft survives."

Sherlock huffed at his friend's actions and went back to sitting on the couch before the silence reminded him that, here, without company, he would be bored again.

"Hang on! I'm coming." Sherlock hustled after his friend, his trench coat swirling around him before he shut the door behind him.


End file.
